one of your french girls
by paradisdesbilles
Summary: He stands there in nothing more than a bathrobe, looking down to his phone and apparently oblivious to the attention he's getting from young female artists thirsty for male subjects to draw. (The reason he's here, mind you. But, still.)
1. Chapter 1

Girls are whispering when she enters the studio – well, girls are always whispering before the class begin, but today is different, more excited perhaps, with some kind of buzzing taking over the room and… Clarke gets it the moment she follows their gazes and looks to the other corner of the room.

_Of course_.

He stands there in nothing more than a bathrobe, looking down to his phone and apparently oblivious to the attention he's getting from young female artists thirsty for male subjects to draw.

(The reason he's here, mind you. But, still.)

That's the moment Professor Wallace chooses to enter the room, and he only needs to clap his hands twice for the conversations to stop and everyone to move to their usual easels. Clarke busies herself with taking her stuff out of her bag as she listens to the teacher – she's torn between pencils and charcoal for a couple of seconds, before she remembers she's studying at the library later. Pencils it is, then, not to go through the hassle of scrubbing her hands for hours.

"Today we're welcoming Bellamy, who was kind enough to agree to pose for us. As always, you have two hours, and you're free to use whatever medium you want and to draw whatever strikes your fancy. Just – keep it classy, alright?"

The same girls who were whispering earlier start giggling at that last sentence, and Clarke wants to groan at how immature they sound – they've drawn models all semester long, and now they can't control themselves because of a pretty guy? _Please_.

She rolls her eyes only to meet his.

He winks at her.

She clearly doesn't blush, thank you very much. It's just really hot in the room today. Anyway, she shakes her head as she focuses back on her pencils, picking a hard one for the first sketches. When she looks back to him, he's still staring and she gets lost in the black of his eyes for long seconds. It's ridiculous, really, but he's facing her and she's going to have to look at him for two hours straight and she doesn't know how she's going to do it.

She's a professional, dammit.

Of course she can do it.

Soon the pencil moves on paper and she loses herself in her drawing, loses herself in the moment. She looks at him but not at his eyes, never at his eyes, and it works just fine. He's all hard muscles and soft flesh, light falling on him just the way she likes, creating beautiful contrasts on his tan skin and making the freckles on his face stand out.

He's beautiful – both from an artist's point of view and a personal point of view – and time flashes by as she tries to capture the curve of his shoulder, the tendon on his neck.

Professor Wallace claps his hands once more, effectively startling her. She looks up to the clock on the wall, eye widening when she sees that the class is over already. Really? It feels like she started drawing only five minutes ago.

And, okay, the piece of paper in front of her looks nothing like a five-minute doodle, and she's actually quite proud of her work, but she wishes she'd had more time, wishes –

"Wow, you're talented."

And she's startled. Again.

He's halfway through putting his wardrobe back, not caring in the slightest if he's putting on a show for horny college girls in the process, his eyes on her drawing and – yeah, she's blushing. _Again_.

"It's okay, I guess. I wish I'd had more time, though."

He's standing so close she can see every freckle kissing his cheeks, and the small scar right above his lip, the speckles of gold in his eyes. Her fingers tingle for her colour pencils – to capture his image, right there in the morning life, warm and soft and beautiful.

"We can make it happen," he says.

And only then does she register her words, and his, and she's left speechless for a second because – how did she not notice she was propositioning him, not very subtlety may she add. "You want to pose for me," and it's a fact, not a question.

He grins then, dimples flashing on each side of his mouth – fuck, she's a goner, she wants to spend the rest of her life drawing him, she's just so pathetic. "I'm game if you are."

…

He says "Draw me like one of your French girls" with that smug voice of his, lounging in her crappy dorm bed like he just _belongs_ there and – she chuckles and shakes her head even as she climbs on top of him.

This is ridiculous, really, because she still has a paper to write for her art history class and a hundred projects to work on, not to mention selecting some drawings for her portfolio and… And he keeps doing it, distracting her every chance he gets until her brain remembers it's _Bellamy_ in front of her, and not some random model, until –

Yeah, until she's crawling on top of him, lips finding the pulsing point on his neck as he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her closer to his warm body.

"This relationship isn't fair, you know," he says, voice broken and breathless. "You always see me naked, and I –"

"Oh, shut up, you see me naked all the time."

It takes only a second before she's pressed to the mattress, Bellamy towering above her with a wicked grin on his lips. "I want you naked right now."

She rolls her eyes – her boyfriend, the _romantic_.

Her art projects will have to wait, though.


	2. Chapter 2

prompt: Clarke being territorial

* * *

><p>"This is ridiculous."<p>

"This is art."

And, yeah, that's her go-to reply these days, and he can't even argue because — yeah, it is art, but fuck if his body isn't a damn canvas and — and it tickles, for fuck's sake, as she presses her brush to his body, smears of red and blue and green.

Let it be known that Bellamy Blake isn't a boyfriend.

He's a damn guinea pig.

Yeah, yeah body painting is cute, and yeah she has clever ideas and he knows she'll ace her finals and all. It doesn't make it any easier for him to stand still while she works on his skin, though.

Okay, maybe he dozes off, standing in the middle of her room. So what?

That's basically how he misses the feeling of the permanent marker against his ribs. When he looks at himself in the mirror, once the shooting is done, the harm is done, and she has that little shit-eating grin of hers as she looks at him, arms folded on her chest and eyebrow raised.

"Fair enough," he says in a laugh, and pounces on her — she screams and struggles all she wants, but the harm is done too and soon she's covered in paint from head to toes.

(He shows up to her next class the following day, because he needs the money alright. The girls are still snickering to themselves, but they kind of just stop when he gets rid of the bathrobe. The black letters still on display no matter how hard he tried to scrub them away the previous evening.

Property of Clarke Griffin.

And Clarke, damn Clarke looks so proud and magnificent, even with red high on her cheeks. He has to remember so damn hard he's naked in the middle of a room full of students because. Well.)


	3. Chapter 3

prompt: Octavia going through Clarke's portfolio

* * *

><p>"He's a forest ranger, actually. He's a really nice guy but…"<p>

Octavia nods towards the kitchen, and Clarke doesn't need to hear more. She knows of Bellamy's protectiveness after all, verging on the most annoying kind of jealousy at time – he loves too deeply for his own good, and Clarke has been the witness of many an argument between the siblings because of that particular topic.

"I'll talk with him, don't worry."

Octavia smiles, one of her rare non-sarcastic smiles, before looking down again. "Thank you… Oh, this one is nice."

She points to a drawing, one Clarke did not long ago – a sunset as she saw it from the roof of their building, and the colours don't please her all that much if she's honest with herself. But then again, maybe it's only her perfectionist side talking. Still, it is nice for Octavia to show such an interest in her art – they aren't really close, but they're getting there, even if it takes more time than they both care to admit.

So she thanks Octavia softly, before muttering something about checking on her brother, because she doesn't quite know what to speak about and doesn't feel like staring at her own drawings.

She sighs the moment she enters the kitchen, moving closer to Bellamy immediately. He's standing in front of the stove and so she hugs him from behind, wrapping her arms around his waist and dropping a kiss to his neck. He hums in reply, fingers brushing her hand before he goes back to his cooking.

"You girls seem to get along," he says with a hint of pride in his voice.

She smiles, knowing how much he loves the both of them, how much it matters to him. "We're getting there. She asked to see my portfolio."

He tenses against her, standing straighter all of a sudden, and Clarke can only frown.

"What portfolio?"

"What do you mean, what portfolio? The one wh – oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

As if on cue, they hear a yelp from the other room. Clarke curses even as they both leave the kitchen, perfectly aware of everything in her portfolio – every painting and every drawing, tracing back her years of college and the classes she took. The figure drawing class she took. The figure drawing class she took with Bellamy as a model.

Fuck.

They find Octavia with her hands pressed to her eyes as she turns her back to the portfolio as if it had personally offended her (which, accurate) – when she glances to Bellamy, Clarke notices the way his mouth twitches and she elbows him, because now is not the moment to burst into laughter, thank you very much.

"TMI. TMI. TMI!" Octavia says, looking at them through her fingers. "You guys are so gross, seriously."

And, yeah, Bellamy is definitely laughing.


	4. Chapter 4

prompt: Bellamy is the one to draw Clarke

(+ bonus first date)

* * *

><p>As far as first dates go, this one is doing well.<p>

Like, yeah, okay, maybe Clarke has seen more of him that is appropriate for a first date and maybe he doesn't mind all that much but – she's easy to talk to, clever and funny if a little uptight. He wonders why they didn't do it before, why it took him three private sessions with her before finding the nerve to ask her out.

Sometimes, he's a dumbass that way.

And yeah, the coffee shop around the corner isn't the best of places for the dean's daughter, but he stands naked in front of people to make ends meet so it's not like he could afford some fancy restaurant. Not that Clarke seems to mind, and he's kind of grateful for that.

(She eats her muffin with a fork and drinks her tea with her pinkie up, like some damn fucking princess, and he's so smitten it's pathetic at that point.)

Basically he spends his time listening to her and admiring her, and he doesn't mind one bit because Clarke just has that way about her and Bellamy is drawn to her like a moth to a flame and – yeah.

He's taking a sip of his coffee when her eyes widen almost comically, mouth opening a tiny bit, before she just says "Don't move." And, well, he doesn't, he freezes with the mug to his lip as she rummages through her bag and grab a pencil and a small sketchbook.

He groans, for the heck of it, but the mug hides his smile from her. "Really? Now?"

"Yes. Now."

And he definitely chuckles this time, as she starts sketching like she's possessed, the pencil scratching the paper as she looks between him and her sketchbook. She goes somewhere else when she's drawing, some corner of her mind where nothing else matters – the world could end and she wouldn't notice, and maybe it's weird but he finds that really hot somehow.

But then again, everything Clarke Griffin is hot to him. So.

It only takes her a few minutes – probably something she'll work on later, she seems to do that a lot, just capture a moment and then go back to it for hours until it's perfection. And then she smiles, nods, and the moment is gone as he finally allows himself another sip of coffee even if he rolls his eyes at her antics.

"Can I at least see it?"

And she rolls her eyes back at him, even as she flips the sketchbook for him to see. It's his face alright, unkempt mop of hair and all. And Bellamy has never stopped to think about his physical appearance – too tanned for America's standards, too many freckles to go unnoticed – but… But he likes the way she sees him, like the way she represents him. He likes himself, through her eyes.

So obviously he snatches the sketchbook from her, and the pencil too while he's at it. "Okay, my turn," he says, and she laughs even as she shakes her head, and leans on her elbow like some kind of blonde version of Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Needless to say, his drawing is a disaster, no matter how lovely the model is – it's more of a stickman with long hair and a skirt than anything else, and Clarke bursts into laughter when he shows it to her. Like you do.

But she also moves to sit next to him, and takes back the pencil. "Well, first of all you forgot my eyes, so thanks for nothing." And maybe her tone is a little patronising, in a very Clarke way, but he doesn't care when she's so close to him he can feel the warmth of her. "Also my nose. And, well, shoes and everything."

And so she fixes it, in quick simple strokes, until holding the sketchbook up – waiting for his approval, it seems.

He sighs.

"Well now you've ruined it."

She laughs again and he kisses her – or maybe she kisses him, the fuck if he cares. Anyway, they share their first kiss in that small booth in that crappy coffee shop, and her lips taste like tea and chocolate, and Bellamy wouldn't have it any other way.


	5. Chapter 5

prompt: Clarke's first exhibition

* * *

><p>Saying she is nervous may be somewhat of an understatement – she's scared to death. Because this is it, this is a 'make or break' kind of deal that could influence her entire career, depending on who sees it, who likes it, who writes about it.<p>

Her first exhibition.

Her first _real_ exhibition, in a real gallery, not just at the university for the students to see. No, this is the real deal, a vernissage with champagne and canapés – she even wears high heels and a dress, which happens _never_. And she tells herself someone might be interested in buying, and that's the most frightening thoughts of all. Her first sell that isn't a commission.

Thankfully, Bellamy is by her side.

("What am I supposed to talk about? I don't know shit about art," he'd asked her as she was fixing his tie. He cleans up nicely in a suit, she'll have to give him that, even if she has mixed feelings about the way he combed back his hair.

"You know shit about art, like the frescoes of Pompeii and stuff." She fidgeted with his collar too, just to keep her fingers busy. "Don't let them get to you because they think an upside-down urinal is the epitome of art."

He laughed.)

His hand on her lower back anchors her even as she talks with her former professors and other artists – he doesn't speak much, playing the part of the trophy boyfriend quite nicely. It makes her laugh internally every time she glances at him, how he pretends not to be bored out of his mind and how fake his smile is. But he's trying, so very hard.

"Clarke!"

She gets pulls into a hug before she has time to react – a very familiar hug, actually, and Raven beams at her with her brighter smile. She pulls Bellamy into a quick hug too, in a bouncy way that speaks of one too many cup of champagne drunk before she found them.

"Your art is awesome, girl. I'm so proud of you."

"Wait, you saw her work?" Bellamy asks with that indignant edge to his voice.

"Wait, you _didn't_?"

Raven looks between the two of them and Bellamy looks at her and – and Clarke just sighs. With all the talking (and, well, the ass-kissing), they haven't even taken the time to look at the gallery yet. And it's kind of unfair, because she's refused to tell Bellamy what is exposed, and he isn't the patient type so – yeah, really badly handled on her part.

So Raven takes matter into her own hands as she links her arm with Bellamy's and drags him to another corner of the room – leaving Clarke to end the conversation she was having with someone seconds before, and the woman looks downright insulted by those loud cheerful young adults.

Whatever.

She makes her way towards Bellamy and Raven slowly, not so confident on her high heels now that she no longer has her boyfriend to lean on just in case. When she's close enough to him, she wraps her arms around his waist and puts her chin on his shoulder. He's frozen on the spot, and she doesn't pretend not to know why.

The painting – one of her very few – is from one of her sketches, drawn on a lazy Sunday morning in their apartment months ago. He lies on his stomach and hugs his pillow, peeking through his lashes with sleepy eyes. She's been working so hard to get all the details right – his freckles and his skin turning to golden hues in the sun, the tender look in his eyes even when half-asleep. It's soft and bright and beautiful, showing him the way she sees him, the way she loves him.

(It's one of her favourite pieces, if she says so herself.)

"Look at that, " she says, low enough for only him to hear. "You're not naked."

He chuckles softly, laces his fingers with hers on his stomach. "Yeah, we wouldn't want to create a riot. Fangirls screaming, all that jazz."

But he moves so they stand face to face, still in each other's arm, and she sees it all in his eyes – the depth of his feelings for her. They're not the kind of couple to say 'I love you' all the time but, really, they don't need to. Not when it's written all over their faces.

"Yeah. Beside, I'm the only one allowed to see you naked."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, _really_."

Bellamy kisses her nose.

Raven makes gagging noises for them to stop.


	6. Chapter 6

"You're clearly over-reacting, I –"

"I'm the one over-reacting? How about you were in the middle of a panic attack –"

"_Yes_, you're over-reacting and –"

"Even if I've barely suggested we –"

"You caught me by surprise and –"

"Are you ashamed of me?"

She stops in the middle of her sentence, eyes widening and mouth opening in surprise at his words. She wants to tell him to fuck off, she wants to laugh at his face because – because this is the most ridiculous shit she's ever heard and – _fuck_.

"Are you for real?"

The words come out way more bitter than she wanted them, but she's past caring at that point because they've been screaming at each other for what feels like hours and she's tired, fuck, she's so very tired.

"Are you ashamed of going out with me, Clarke?" he repeats, eyes darkened by anger and jaw clenching. She's never seen him that upset before, not even that one time some guy groped her in a bar and it ended in a fight and them being banished from said bar.

Like, _seriously_ upset.

It leaves her speechless.

"Because I swear to god if I'm just some guy you keep around because he's pretty and let you see him naked for hours – _I swear to god_…"

"What the fuck is wrong with you."

She doesn't make it sound like a question.

She elbows him in the ribs to move past him, and busies herself by grabbing a handful of brushes she still needs to clean because – hell, she can't look at him right now. She's fuming, like, cartoon-smoke-coming-out-of-her-ears fuming, and she can't look at him or else she'll explode and do something she'll regret immediately.

The fuck is wrong with him, seriously.

But of course he won't leave her alone, because he wouldn't be Bellamy if he wasn't as stubborn as she is, and of course he grabs her but the arm before she can reach the sink. She faces him and she's still fuming, and there's something gratifying about seeing him in the exact same state.

"Why don't you fucking want me to meet your mother?"

"_Because!_"

And she yells it, that one word, as she throws her arms up in the air with what can only be described as defeat, in that kind of theatrical, over-the-top sigh.

While still holding her brushes.

And she watches in terror the stain of paint she leaves on him – one almost perfect line of blue paint, from chest to forehead. His eyes widen too as he looks down at his shirt, then back up at her – she doesn't imagine the way he fights against a smile, his lips twitching even so slightly, because now is not the time and…

"_Bitch_."

It comes off as a laugh, really, and he surges forwards before she can stop him, snatching the brushes from her and pressing them to her cheek. It's cold and gooey, and she gasps in outrage even if she appreciates the small reprieve in their fight.

That is, until it turns into another fight altogether because – of course it does. Of course she retaliates by running to her tubes of gouache, and soon he finds himself with green on his neck and red in his hair. They're wrestling over the tube of yellow like children, screaming and laughing and biting every patch of skin coming close to their teeth.

They fall on her bed in a tangled of colourful limbs, breathless and panting. Still she adds some more paint to his face, for good measure, pressing her fingers to his cheeks and his hair.

But the air is still charged between them, still heavy with things unsaid, and she sighs, knowing this is a conversation they need to have. "Yes, I don't want you to meet her," she says, "because you're too good for her and I don't want her to judge you, and I know it's stupid but –"

He stops her with a kiss, his lips tasting like paint – when she sighs, it's for a different reason altogether, fingers wandering beneath his shirt as she grabs his waist and puts him closer to her. She moans at the feeling of him between her legs, putting enough pressure there for warmth to pool in her lower belly, for a shiver of lust to run down her spine.

She wants him, the adrenaline of their fights (both of them) begging for some make-up sex. She wants him so much, tugging at the hem of his shirt for him to get the message. And he does, getting rid of it in a couple of seconds before his mouth is back against hers, hands roaming and hips thrusting.

He brands 'I love you' and 'I'm sorry' into her skin and when she comes undone, it's with his tongue pressed to her clit and smudges of paint on her thighs.


	7. Chapter 7

It's kinda awkward having him as a model in class once they've started dating – mostly because everybody knows they're dating, and so everybody knows that's Clarke's boyfriend, there, naked in front of them.

Yeah. Awkward.

And she knows he doesn't do it for the heck of it, knows his job as a TA pays nothing and his job as a bartender is to pay for his sister's college fees so – she doesn't mind, really. And she's never been the jealous type, which helps a lot. Still, she could do without the snickering and the side-glances from the girls in her group, because it feels like high school all over again and, please, no.

He's already in the studio when she enters, wearing nothing but his usual bathrobe, and he looks up to flash her a smile before focusing back on his phone until Professor Wallace arrives and announces the beginning to the class.

It takes Clarkes maybe two minutes to see something is wrong.

She knows him by heart, knows every inch of his body at this point, and is getting more than familiar with his mind too. It's in the way he holds himself, in his tense shoulders and clenched jaw – something is definitely wrong.

And she can't do anything.

Saying those two hours are unproductive is a bit of an understatement because she can't focus on her art, too busy worrying about him to really pour her heart in the pencil she holds between her fingers, too worry to look away from him.

(Wallace notices. Doesn't comment.)

He's quick to leave the room when the professor call it a day and she is quick to follow, entering the adjoint room when he's slipping into his pants. He barely glances her way before going back to putting his clothes on. She forces herself not to roll her eyes because it wouldn't help.

"What's going on?"

He shrugs.

The idiot just shrugs.

So she moves closer until she stands right in front of him, and he has no other choice but to look her in the eyes – she sees sadness and heartbreak and she doesn't understands, but mostly she wants to hug him better and never let go. Instead she whispers "hey" softly, and raises a hand to his cheek. He leans into her touch, closes his eyes with a sigh.

"Let's just go to your dorm, okay?"

She nods in reply, grabs his hand.

He follows.

(Later, much later, spooning on her too small bed and watching Netflix on her laptop, he tells her. He tells her of a woman with blue eyes and a defiant stare, a woman too good for this world, too good for all the men that crossed her path. He tells her of a kind smile and even kinder heart, of a soft voice and sharp tongue.

He tells her of Aurora Blake.

Five years, he says. It's been five years.)

(She holds him close and wipes away the tears.)


	8. Chapter 8

She stares at her notes without really seeing them, the handwriting becoming blurry the more she looks at it. She's been at it for hours – for days, seriously, a never-ending study session driving her crazy with each passing minute. Final exams will be the death of her, surely.

So Clarke sighs as she drops her forehead to the desk, and then headbutts it once or twice with a groan, for good measure. The low chuckle follows shortly after, and she glares at Bellamy over her shoulder. He's chilling in her bed, half propped up on the pillow, with a book in hands, and she hates him – hates that his exams finished the previous day so he's now free and she isn't. Lucky bastard.

"Please, be careful, we wouldn't want you to kill some neurons along the way."

"Oh, a dumb blonde joke. _Perfect_."

He flashes her a grin.

Asshole.

She focuses back on her notes with a long sigh. Last exam, it's her last exam and then she's free to do as she wishes for the next few weeks, what with Christmas break and all. (And she knows what she wants to do, it's lounging in her bed right now.)

"What are you studying anyway?" he asks.

"Renaissance."

There is a pregnant pause before he replies, all too smugly for her taste. "Ah. Ninja Turtles."

She doesn't know if she wants to laugh or face-palm at this point, and so she settles for pinching the bridge of her nose as she turns around in her seat to look at him. Another smirk is thrown her way, with additional dimples and sparkling eyes, and the urge to throw a pen at him is strong.

"Seriously? History is your major and all you find to say is 'ah, ninja turtles'?"

Her imitation of his voice is atrocious to say the least, voice way too low – more Batman than Bellamy – and he laughs at her in reply. Yep, definitely an asshole. She should ditch him, or something.

"Hey, my thing is pottery and statues of naked guys, not… boring Christian shit."

She looks offended, for a second, before she rolls her eyes at him and turns back to her desk. She doesn't have the strength to fight with him right now – doesn't have the time, either, if the glance at her alarm clock then her study schedule is anything to go by.

(He's made fun of her for how anal she is about everything, saying artists are supposed to be messy. But it's not her fault, because growing up with a doctor and an engineer as parents forced her to have that kind of brain and she always panics when she doesn't write down all the things that need to be done.)

(He mocks her but the moron colour-codes his notes too. So, really.)

She hears him stand up as she goes back to studying, and doesn't think much of it. He knows her place as well as she does now, half lives there most of the time, so she knows better than to worry about the mess Bellamy could possibly make in the kitchen.

Clarke reaches the third page of notes when he comes back, and she smells it before she actually sees the mug between his hands – tea, sweet, much needed tea. He puts the mug next to her laptop and she sighs happily at the sight of the warm, fuming drink.

Sigh that turns into a groan when he puts his hands on her shoulders, thumbs pressing into her tense muscles. She leans her head back and against his stomach, closes her eyes lazily. This is what she needs right now – a break and for her boyfriend to stop being an ass for more than five seconds. And she feels Bellamy's smile as he drops a kiss to her forehead like, yeah, okay, he may be an asshole but he isn't half-bad when he feels like it.

She may keep him a little while longer.

"Come on, babe. A few more hours and you're done."

She almost expects him to throw himself in one of his inspirational speeches, the ones she's heard him giving his sister over the phone more than once, but he doesn't. Instead, his hands brush against her shoulders, her neck, until she's relaxed and she stops worrying about everything and anything. He's good at it that way, even if she doesn't understand how that works.

"You can do this," he says as he kisses her on the cheek, lingering there for a few seconds.

He jumps back on her bed then, and she needs all the willpower in the world for her not to follow and snuggle against him until she falls asleep. Instead, she grabs the mug, and the tea burns her tongue as she drinks it and goes back to her studying.

She can do this.

(As it turns out, I-aced-my-exams-and-so-did-you sex climbs its way up her Top 10 Fucking Sessions With Bellamy Blake. Go figure.)


	9. Chapter 9

Quiet moments, just the two of them in her dorm room, are as rare as they are precious – they both have crazy schedules, what with seminars and lectures and a hundred other things. So an entire afternoon where they're both free? It's nothing but a miracle. And Clarke loves those moments, just him and her and her little bed, often with a book and a cup of tea, always with cuddles. The casual intimacy of a couple, the kind of domesticity she never thought she'd share – not so young, not while still in college.

But it's Bellamy, so.

So she sighs, content, as she turns a page of her book and leans into his touch. He plays with her hair a lot, fingers always buried in her mane, and she purrs like a kitten every time. Today isn't any different, and she doesn't need to look up to know there is the ghost of a smirk on his lips – proud as a peacock, always.

She feels herself drifting off under his caresses, and is almost startled when they stop, when he stills against her.

"Clarke?" he asks, soft enough as not to wake her up if she is indeed asleep. Which she isn't, and she hums under her breath to tell him as much. "We need to talk."

She's startled again, for an entire different reason this time, and sits up to look at him in the eyes, hers growing wider all of a sudden. He frowns before a flash of horror crosses his face.

"Fuck. No. Not that kind of talk, geez."

Bellamy punctuates his word with a peck on the lips, and she softens against him as relief runs through her veins – it is stupid, she knows, because they've been together for what feels like centuries and they're doing good. They're doing great. Still.

"What kind of talk?"

He smiles at her, the smile where his dimples flashes and her heart skips a bit, and Clarke rolls her eyes out of habit – she knows he's grinning on purpose, just to soften the blow of whatever is coming next. "You're graduating soon."

Yeah, no shit Sherlock.

It's the only thing that's been on her mind for _months_, her gown is in her wardrobe now and she freaks out every morning when she has to dress and – and she's a mess about it, okay? Rightfully so, she thinks, because then she enters the scary world of adulthood and… Well, let's say it's not easy out there for a little artist like her.

"What's your point?"

He looks – damn, is Bellamy Blake _blushing_? It can't be right yet there it is, the red high on his cheeks, freckles standing out even more than usual. This is endearing, but worrying too because – well, because her boyfriend is textbook confidence and smugness, and she can't remember the last time he looked remotely bashful.

"Are you – will you go back to living with your mother?"

She wants to snort – _hell, no_ – but it dawns on her why _exactly_ he's asking that before the ungraceful sound has time to escape her mouth.

It's not a new, foreign conversation, not really, but she's always managed to dodge it so far – change the subject, distract him with kisses and sex until he forgot he even talked about it. Hell, just straight ignore him, too. But he has corned her this time, the asshole, and it's a conversation she can no longer ignore.

So, of course, her heartbeat increases exponentially and all colours drain from her face. Typically Clarke.

"Are you having a panic attack?"

She – yeah, she guesses she kinda does, actually.

Bellamy runs his hand up and down her back, a worried look in his eyes as she heaves laboured breathes. She's a mess, and he's not really helping and –

"Have you ever noticed how you've got one freckle bigger than the other freckles on your nose?" She puts her finger on said freckle, ignores how her hand is trembling. "It's more, like, two freckles that merged to give a mega freckle but…"

"Clarke."

"I mean, it's weird, right? DNA and melanin and…"

"_Clarke_."

She stops and stares at him, and he stares back, and this isn't awkward at all. Gosh, they've been dating for three years now, this shouldn't be awkward, what the hell is wrong with her?

"Breathe," he tells her, and Clarke does just that, takes a large gulp of air and let it out slowly by her nose. She feels better, only slightly. "Now tell me why you're freaking out like the day I met your mom."

Yeah, not her more glorious moment either – he'd spent weeks, months, trying to convince her it couldn't be that bad an idea, that he could deal with it. And of course she had panicked during the entire week before their Sunday lunch. And of course Abby had been awful from begin to end, asking about student loans and Octavia and his career and even _Aurora_ – a nightmare. Bellamy had taken it in stride, but Clarke had only wanted to hide in a tiny hole and never come out every again. It was more than embarrassing, it was _mortifying_.

"It's…" she starts, but is at loss for words, so she runs a hand through her hair, hoping it could help. It doesn't. "I don't know."

"Too fast? Too real?" His lips curl into a kind smile. "Well princess, I hate to break it to you, but you're a little late to the party."

She's perfectly aware of that (which make this situation all the more ridiculous) because she has Octavia's number on speed dial on her phone, and Bellamy's shitty coffee in her cupboard, and even his toothbrush in her bathroom. He pretty much lives with her in that dorm room, despite it being forbidden, and moving to another place, one with several rooms and maybe even a washing machine if they go crazy, wouldn't change much from what they have now.

But it is different, somehow, too.

It is different because she doesn't have the best track record when it comes to relationships, and her parents didn't set the best example either and – and when she looks at Bellamy, she thinks this is it. _He_'s it for her, and it scares her half to death, this absolute certainty.

He noses to that spot beneath her ear, to stop her train of thoughts. "Move in with me, babe."

"Is that a question or an order?"

He chuckles, his breath hot and tickling against the sensitive skin of her neck. "It's whatever you want it to be as long as you say yes."

"Your place is too small," she says, even as she closes her eyes and tilts her head to the side, offering her neck to him. "I need my own studio."

"Then we'll find a bigger place. Two rooms."

His hand snakes under her shirt, and she hates herself for being so weak, for letting him coax her into anything with heated kisses and gentle touches. But she does the same all the time, too, so it's only fair.

"Somewhere quiet. Good neighbourhood." This is the weirdest kind of foreplay they've ever engaged in, yet she finds herself breathless beyond repair. "We could even get a cat."

The moan escapes her lips without her meaning to, and Bellamy barks a laugh. She hits his shoulder in retribution, but he only laughs harder, the asshole. "Come on, Clarke."

"Yeah, okay."

"Little more convincing?"

It's her time to laugh, a huffed little sound as she rolls her eyes. "Yes, Bellamy. I'll move in with you."

He lashes onto her lips then, fingers pressing to her waist with a purpose, and it takes her a matter of seconds before she forgets her fears. Forgets everything, really.

(The apartment is in a neighbourhood close to campus because, for all intents and purposes, it's more practical for Bellamy's classes as a TA. They take the smaller room, and the biggest one soon finds itself full of canvas and cans of paint, of pencils and charcoal and brushes and a hundred other objects. She makes it hers, her own little artistic territory. She makes it hers and she calls it home, and nothing has every felt more right that this.)

(He finds a stray cat, because of course he does. Calls him Caesar, the nerd.)


End file.
